


Bringing Rain (to the Fields of Duty)

by lysanatt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marriage is not love, that much Rodolphus Lestrange has to realise. Marriage is a charade, a distorted mocking of what love is supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Rain (to the Fields of Duty)

The wind sends a loud shower of rain against the windows. The candlelight reflects in the glass and the darkness, little drops shining, mirroring the dim light in a diamond-shaped twinkle. He sinks into her, between her spread legs, and she makes a sound of pain, reflecting the hurt inside him. Diamond-shaped pain.

_He sinks into his lover, and he makes a sound of pleasure, giving voice to lust and need and desire. His own pale skin shines winterly in the dim light of the morning; the sun barely a rose glow on the horizon, contrasting the darkness that is his lover. His love. His secret. Their pleasure rises with the sun, leaving them hovering in an inferno of bright, golden release; leaving them hovering on the open sky they have created for themselves; little suns, burning. Their orgasms are explosions; their tiny universe erupting in ecstasy._

Her eyes are closed and her face (her beautiful, beautiful face) is a mask, contracted in displeasure and pain. She has not looked at him, has not said a word, a sound, until now. 'Are you all right?' he asks, and she nods, her face turned away so he cannot kiss her, making her yes improbable. Outside, the rain drums against the walls, against the window, accompanying this with the sound of greyness and _tristesse_. The white sheets are icy against his knees, just like her.

_His lover's eyes are nightly. They have little flecks of light in them; little stars glittering on the dark velvet that holds so much warmth for him. The aftermath of their rocking of sky and earth is summer-warm, love-burnt as they both are. There is tenderness in the slightest touch, residues of desire in their kiss. Kingsley moves a little, and Rodolphus cannot but admire the sliding of his sinewy body, a willow of a man in all things, except for stature: strong and pliant, bending with the storm, but never breaking. Over him, Kingsley is like the firmament, his universe. Their kiss rekindles the desire that lies only dormant long enough for them to catch their breath. 'Again,' Rodolphus tells him, 'your turn now.'_

He comes, but there is no release, only the physical act that leaves her full of his come. Like he is supposed to. Like they expect him to. Her face is expressionless, although the rain lives in the tips of her eyelashes; a tear clings to a black hair before it falls on the marble-cold surface of her skin. The drop cuts him inside, reminding him that she, too, might want somebody else. Her bridal robe lies dead on the Persian carpet, a skin shed, forcing her to grow into another life than the one she might have hoped for. They are doing nothing but bringing rain to the fields of duty.

_Kingsley massages his hole with two slicked fingers, and he follows their tips, rotating with them, greedily moving, his body devouring them. 'Eager?' Kingsley murmurs, and taps with a finger exactly on the right spot. Rodolphus's voice is a mirror of his lust, again and again he cries out Kingsley's name; again and again he twists his lust around the long fingers inside him. 'Now,' he cries softly, sliding apart, breaking, melting together with the man he loves. 'Take me now!'_

He pulls out and her revulsion is a wall between them in their nakedness. He wants her to feel good, to at least have her release. He does not want to leave her with nothing but the nauseating surprise of what their marriage will be if they do not try to tear the burden of their breeding into digestible parts. He reaches between her legs and his fingers come out red with her blood. Her pure blood, mixed with his pure-blooded come, the only reason why they are here together. He leans over her, taking her nipple in his mouth. Her breasts are firm and round and white, the nipples rose hills upon white snow. She mewls as he carefully strokes her between her legs, using her dampness to ease her. She sounds like a drowning kitten, held under cold water by a brutal hand, and there is no ease in it. She sobs as she comes, finally letting herself float with the need of her body.

The name she moans that instant is not Rodolphus's.

_There is no pain when Kingsley thrusts, just fullness, a sparkling glitter of colours and patterns between Rodolphus's black, heavy eyelashes when he closes his eyes to better be able to relish the intensity of their union. There is a dull, sharp not-pain; a hot strong spice on the delightful mingling of bodies and lips and Kingsley's cock buried deep inside his tightness. Their lovemaking is rough and determined, a brilliant prolonging of the pleasure that will come. A hand wraps around the base of a cock, holding back. A thrust is stilled by the knowledge of the other's body. Waiting... waiting..._

_Then the sun sparkles and the world disappears, and the only thing grounding him is Kingsley's hoarse moans in his ear. 'Rodolphus,' he moans, and every feeling he holds for him is wrapped up in three syllables._

She never looks at him. Her eyes follow only her lord. Rudolphus has just been given something that will never be his.

_He is drowning in the demands of his family, his breeding, his allegiance. They both are. 'I have to marry,' he says. 'It is expected of me.'_

_'I have to do this, I want to become an Auror,' Kingsley says, and that is the end of it. Love has no place in the world of duty._

_Outside, the rain starts pouring, washing away the freedom of their youth._

He doesn't remember his youth very well. Maybe there has been brilliant, shining, happy memories--memories of long summer nights and the scent of dew and freshly cut grass. He doesn't remember. If he ever owned memories that costly, they are long gone; tender meat for Dementors to feed on. His memories are dry bones, gnawed free of any remaining taste. Outside, the wind sends another slosh of cold water through the narrow, pane-less window; the rain painting dark spots on the dusty granite, leaving him with a painful image of a face turned away from him in disgust.

But sometimes, when the northern wind brings rain, and his gaolers float through the old prison to hover on the rain-lit sky, nurtured by the weather's hopelessness, he imagines he does remember sunlit times, a velvet kiss.


End file.
